


Olympic Tryouts (part 2)

by jennamacaroni



Series: Olympic Tryouts [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2002104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennamacaroni/pseuds/jennamacaroni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana and Brittany have been rivals in the college hockey world for the past four years.  now they’re both at Olympic tryouts to play on the same team and Boston and Minnesota just don’t get along, okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olympic Tryouts (part 2)

**Author's Note:**

> and here is part 2! thanks again to miracle for being such a bomb.com movie. not going to lie i was jamming to the movie score while writing this.

Brittany didn’t return to the dorm for the rest of the night and Santana only finally spots her upon entering the locker room at the rink at daybreak the next morning. Brittany is already half suited up facing in towards her locker, and Santana keeps her eyes on her as she crosses the room to her own locker, watching as Brittany pulls the suspenders of her pants deliberately up and over each shoulder. Brittany must feel eyes on her because she turns her head and catches Santana staring. A bruise of deep purplish blue blooms across Brittany’s cheek, blood pooling stagnant under her right eye. Santana can’t help the smirk that creeps across her own face, holding up her swollen and bruised knuckles with a shrug and fluttering her fingers in an obnoxious yet flirtatious wave. Santana thinks she actually sees Brittany’s irises freeze over from all the way across the room, her jaw set hard and scowl akin to Grumpy Cat before turning back to grab her shoulder pads.

Santana just laughs lightly to herself, dumping her bag on the floor in front of her locker before pulling on her pads and lacing her skates up tightly.

_______

Coach Taylor has them doing suicides before anyone even touches a puck, promising Santana and the 29 other players around her that they better prepare themselves to skate harder than they have ever skated before, every minute of every day or risk getting cut.

“The legs feed the wolf, ladies,” Coach barked, whistle poised before his lips and sending them for yet another sprint.

That’s all they do for the first two hours of the morning session, only finally stopping after one player, some midget named Rachel Berry, drops to her knees and pukes nearly on the assistant coach’s skates.

_______

Quinn finally catches up with Santana during breakout drills, giving her an affectionate slap to the leg pads with her stick. “You sure did give her a hell of a shiner, Lopez,” she jokes, nodding towards Brittany across ice.

“Hellz yeah, I did,” Santana gloats, grinning. It feels weird not being paired on the same line with Quinn, considering they had been playing together for years and had a knack for finding each other on the ice. But Santana thinks it’s only a matter of time before they’re back working together.

When Santana notices Brittany lining up for the next play at center, she nudges Quinn and mumbles, “let me take this one, huh?” skating up to the defensive side of the puck, leaning her stick across her knees and turning to eye Brittany whose eyes never leave Coach Taylor.

He shouts a quick instruction to move the puck quickly and flicks it down the ice in behind the net as the whistle blows. Brittany is off like a rocket, skating hard towards her own net while another player picks up the loose puck along the back boards and starts it up ice. Santana swirls backwards in a slow circle, tracking the puck movement as it makes its way forward. The second the puck handler looks up to Brittany and readies herself to make the pass, Santana digs her edge into the ice and sprints forward, beelining right towards the puck trajectory and catching Brittany with her head down ready to receive the pass. The momentum and impact of Santana’s lowered shoulder lifts Brittany clear off the ice before slamming back hard on her side, her helmet smacking off the ice with a crack, snow from the ice coating her like a layer of frost.

There are multiple groans and mumbled condemning comments, whispers of “cheap shot” and “old grudges die hard,” as Brittany rises to her knees, forehead pressed to the ice. A few players skate up slowly, ready to offer her a hand up.

“Why the hell are you hitting like that for, Lopez?” questions an Asian girl who skates up into Santana’s face as she slowly retreats backwards. She’s got the tell tale maroon and gold pants of a Minnesota Gopher but Santana keeps her distance.

“Tell your girl to keep her head up and she won’t have to worry,” Santana barbs, and at that, Brittany lunges to her feet and throws down her gloves.

“Let’s go!” she shouts, skating menacingly forward and raising her firsts as Santana too throws down her stick and gloves. They collide with a crash and Brittany throws two quick hooks before Santana has the chance to brace herself, as her helmet is wrenched off and skitters across the ice behind her. Another one of Brittany’s quick punches claps her sharply in the lower jaw.

A few players circle around them, looking for the opportunity to pull them apart, but Quinn is quick to skate forward with a shove and a command of “let ‘em go.”

There are a few encouraging words thrown to both Brittany and Santana and they continue to wrestle and spar at each other, one hand gripped in the other’s jersey, circling around in a strange dance. After a few more traded rib shots, Brittany finally lands a direct jab square into Santana’s nose, dropping both to the ice in a heap as their teammates finally moving in to pull the two apart.

Coach Taylor is stone-faced as he circles the group slowly, eyeing back and forth between Santana mopping up the blood that oozes down over her lips and dripping of her chin to speckle the ice and Brittany pulling the tie loose from her hair that was pulled half out and strewn about.

“So how about it, ladies?” Coach asks, looking around. The rink is so quiet, Santana can hear the buzzing of the electricity through the light fixtures overhead. “Look like hockey to you?”

Santana fumes while Quinn drags her backwards, keeping a hand on her shoulder pad as a cautious restraint. Santana’s breaths expel in heaves as her adrenaline begins to ebb, her eyes following Coach Taylor’s continued slow but deliberate circling.

“Let me tell y’all something and let me make this perfectly clear: if you’re here to settle old scores, you’re on the wrong team. You can go ahead and pack up your gear and get on the first flight back home.” He pauses and switches between looking at them both. Santana and Brittany’s furious glares meet briefly before landing back on the coach.

“We move forward starting right now,” he asserts, “we start becoming a team RIGHT. NOW,” his final two words emphasized with quick whacks of his stick to the ice, and Santana can feel Brittany’s gaze on her settle heavy like lead.

“Fundamentals. Conditioning. Creativity. Heart. THAT is what this team will be about, NOT settling old scores.” Santana stands just the slightest bit straighter, swiping her sleeve under her nose once more before lowering her helmet back down in silent agreement. She watches Brittany pull on her gloves and roll her shoulders back before nodding and picking up her stick.

“Let’s start with some introductions. How about you, Lopez, since you seem so keen to make a name for yourself on day one.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

She clears her throat, spits the blood from her lips and speaks. “Santana Lopez. Winthrop, Massachusetts. Boston College.” Her eyes stay locked on Coach Taylor as his lips press into a line. He studies her quietly for a few seconds before turning and nodding to Brittany, whose eyes move back to Santana and lock into a stare.

“Brittany Pierce. Victoria, Minnesota. University of Minnesota.” Santana can’t help but let her eyes fall to watch the words tumble from Brittany’s mouth. The way her lips tug in and out, pressing together and pulling apart mesmerizes her. Finally she allows her gaze to travel back up and trace around the black eye she marked Brittany with the previous night. She hears others around her speaking but she can’t seem to focus on what they’re saying. Instead she continues to stare at Brittany with this faint buzzing in her ears, feeling a low but consistent tug in the pit of her stomach as sky blue eyes continue to press into her. She feels suddenly disarmed.

“Okay, let’s try this again. Line it up!” Coach instructs, blowing the whistle sharply as the players move back into position and pitching Santana out of her daze with quick shake of her head.

Santana doesn’t speak or look toward Brittany any more than necessary for the rest of the morning session.


End file.
